Mindwipe
by Harry West
Summary: What does the Galaxy's most popular vidicube show have in store for Zaphod and Trillian? And where do Arthur and Ford come into it? And will the author manage to pull it all together before the final chapter? Zarquon only knows! Chapter NINE Up.
1. The Mahogany Wood

     Anything that belongs to the estate of Douglas Adams belongs to the estate of Douglas Adams, and not me, unfortunately. Reviews are always welcome.

     **Chapter One – The Mahogany Wood**

     Ford Prefect watched the three-banded tree bears glide from their high vantage points, in the Mahogany Wood. The flaps of skin, loose and little noticed when at rest, were taut between the front and back limbs in flight. Their short paddle-like tails acted as rudders as they chased iridescent damselflies, or pounced on dark lizards camouflaged - but not adequately enough to escape the visual acuity of the bears - against the boles of the trees.

     The bears extended their sharp claws, to grip the hard bark, as they came in to land. After dispatching their prey they would throw back their black snouts, and whistle their staccato contact call, "It's probably not very important, but just to let you know I'm over here now."

     During the mating season male tree bears whistle a slight variant on the theme, which effectively says, "I'm a sexually mature three-banded tree bear, strong and virile, and I've just caught a tasty treat. If you're a female, three-banded tree bear, preferably in season, and would like to eat it, you'd be more than welcome." As a strategy, as is ever the case in matters of sexual congress, it was a bit hit and miss. Here in the Mahogany Wood, food was in plentiful supply, and female tree bears are more than capable of catching their own lunch.

     Ford sent off another entry to the offices of The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy, and moved on. They probably wouldn't use it. In fact, it was a certainty that the entry would find its way into the back-up archives, which could only be accessed from the offices of Megadodo Publications, the publishers of the Guide. Nevertheless, if he wanted the back pay, he had to work. He had once demanded fifteen years remuneration for the two words 'mostly harmless' but those juice-sipping sun-tanned bastards, on Ursa Minor Beta, had tightened up the rules. No matter, that nobody was ever going to read anything he wrote about an uninhabited planet, he still had to write it. That is why Ford was making the effort. If his submissions found their way into the archives, then they could find their way back out again. There was that girl in the library – she'd help him. And if she didn't work there anymore he'd have to speak to her replacement. 

     One day this planet, pleasant enough for a short stay, may be of interest to holidaymakers, and a small tome on the subject may prove lucrative. He wouldn't always be a two-hundred-and-ten year old stripling, and an interesting, albeit wantonly erroneous, travelogue of his 'adventures' on this wooded world might provide a nice little nest egg. 

     Adventures - if only that were true. It was now almost a standard year since he'd had any contact with another sentient being. He could understand why Arthur had left without him. The teasers had taken off in something of a hurry, and Ford couldn't blame them for that. The cops were closing in and there wasn't any time to hang around for stragglers. The cops hadn't come looking for him afterwards, so Ford could only suppose that they had thought him on board. But he'd been delayed, having gone back for his towel. He knew where it was. He just hadn't had it with him when they'd first spotted the Blagulon Kappa policecraft. As Ford approached the beach, he'd seen Arthur climb into the teasers' ship, and then seen it lift away, gathering speed as it did so, until the ship became a streak of nothingness.

     But why hadn't Arthur come back for him? If the Earthman knew one thing about Ford Prefect, it was surely that the Betelgeusian hated being marooned anywhere. Earth had been torture enough, but at least the locals made a decent brew. Still, it could have been worse. Here there was food and water in abundance. He would survive.

     Ford loved and hated his towel in equal measure. It was a source of great comfort, but it was also the reason he'd been alone for two-point-four year's local time. He had seen the seasons come and go, and come and go again. Another rainy season would finish him off, he decided. It wasn't the constant daily drenching for weeks on end, though that was bad enough - it was the interminable boredom. At least in the dry season he could move around and explore the island. It was big enough for that.

     In a previous dispatch he had called it 'Ford's Island', in the hope that the name would become fixed, and that in turn would lead the curious to investigations as to where the name came from, and that in turn would lead them to the travel book he felt sure he could cobble together from the reports he'd written. Sometimes, when Ford let his imagination run away with him, the book became a something of a Robinson Crusoe affair, a novel Ford had once read on Earth. Except that, Ford had no Man Friday to help him pass the time, so he would have to make that bit up.

     The worst thing of all, however, was that Ford had too much time to think. He shouldn't be thinking about his retirement just yet. Betelgeusians are long-lived and there is really no need to rush around thinking all the time. His species are apt to let things happen, and tend not to fall into the trap of planning ahead, which so often leads to disappointment. On Betelgeuse Five they have a saying: A stitch in time is often a waste of twine. 

     A small flock of bright yellow finches flew across Ford's line of sight, and as he watched them disappear into the trees, something caught his eye. There in the clearing before him stood a small metallic-red two-seater flying saucer.


	2. Celebrity Horror Camp

**Chapter Two – Celebrity Horror Camp**

     It starts with a static view of space, from the very edge of the Universe. A multitude of galaxies fills the screen. Deep space. We move, slowly at first, or so it appears, but we are picking up speed. Unbelievable speed. Galaxies flash by in an instant. Incredibly, the pace quickens still more, and we diminish giant ellipticals and irregular spirals to subliminal images with our fantastic headlong rush. Their size is nothing to us. Soon, it becomes apparent which of those tiny white patches we are heading for. Not long now... 

     Of necessity, and in order to enjoy the spectacle all the more, we decelerate as we approach our target galaxy. Close, closer, closer, and we're in! We pass into the galaxy and shoot around its outer Eastern rim. The swirl of stars rushes towards us, seemingly building to an exhilarating velocity as we reach the more densely populated clusters. We move at thousands of light years per second in ever decreasing circles. Red, white and brown dwarfs and blue supergiants flash by at an alarming rate. They pass so close we can almost feel the heat. The circles get tighter and tighter, and then we slow right down... Galactic Central. 

     A sharp bank and we see the star, Alpha Sagittarii in the middle distance. The planets, five gas giants, and half a dozen of the solid sort, slide by until the familiar green and gold patterns of the planet Rukbat IV frame our field of view. After a couple of quick orbits, a change of trajectory plunges us into the planet's atmosphere, and down through the wispy clouds. The topography of the planet's surface is a blur as we soar over green mountains and yellow seas, and then we hit the night side, and the horrific jumble of architectural nonsense, lit by a billion neon lights, that is the planet's only city is directly ahead of us. We slow down and see the buildings, aircars, and the illuminated advertising hoardings of a teeming metropolis. We are on a collision course with a gaudy monstrosity composed of gold bricks and diamond dust. We swoop down, and zip through the open doors at ground level. Into the foyer we go, and through another set of double doors which lead to the auditorium beyond, and we don't stop until we are eyeball to eyeball with the sequin-suited, sparkle-toothed vision on the stage.

     "Hermaphrodites, Ladies and Gentlemen, Intelligent Plant Life, and Sentient Beings All," the precisely-enunciated, disembodied voice announces, "Welcome to the Show of Shows. By Special Arrangement with Milliways, the Restaurant at the End of the Universe, Please Show Your Appreciation for the Host with the Most, Mister Max Quordlepleen! This is Celebrity Horror Camp!"

     The professional audience erupts into pseudo-spontaneous applause, with wild practised whoops of delight, and rehearsed neighbourly and enthusiastic hugs all round. The Audience-Coordinator cavorts around the edge of the stage like a demented chimp with a caffeine habit. Close-ups of the audience members suggest that they cannot believe their luck. You would imagine from observing them that this is the last thing they had expected. They really were here in Rukbat City for a live transmission of the greatest show in the Milky Way! And tomorrow they won't believe their luck either, or the day after that. Audience-Coordinator tucks his prompt boards under his arm and decides to have an early night. His services won't be needed anymore this evening. He is surplus to requirements. This audience knows its stuff. 

     Max Quordlepleen smiles. He looks around the great hall and contemplates the sea of faces before him. He shakes his head, as if, even he, the great Max Quordlepleen, possibly the best known entertainer in the Galaxy, can scarcely credit the delights on offer, and in the days ahead until the show reaches its carefully planned finale. At last, he finds his voice and addresses the audience, and the zillions of people watching off world in every part of the Galaxy, "Thank you, thank you. And thank you Spiro for that great introduction."

     This is a cue for the specially auditioned live, albeit technically brain-dead, audience to start into another round of wild cheering, whistling and clapping. This audience is hot, hot, hot. The Audience-Coordinator is nowhere to be seen. 

     "Thank you again, kind friends," says Max Quordlepleen. "Tonight we have our best ever Celebrity Horror Camp. Never before has such a line up been assembled for your enjoyment. We have stars from a variety of disciplines in the world of popular entertainment and public life. From the vidicube to politics, from sport to the criminal fraternity, from young hopefuls desperate to kick start their celebrity careers, to established mega-stars who should have read the small print. I do not, however, wish to take up much more of your time. I know you are as anxious, as I am, to get on with the show. And so, let us reveal, without further ado, and in no particular order," he says stretching things out still further, "our roll call of victims, er... sorry I mean, of course, our contestants," Max adds with a chuckle and a trademark conspiratorial wink to the slave-cam. "Spiro, take it away!"

     "Thank you, Max. First up, someone I'm sure you've all heard of," Spiro says for the benefit of those members of the viewing public who don't usually watch this sort of crap, but who are with company who usually watches this sort of crap, so that they can pretend they have actually heard of the elevated non-entity that is about to be announced, "direct from her non-starring role in the smash hit holo-movie, When Worlds Collide, please put your hands together – or whatever it is you use on these occasions – for the delectable Miss Fanny Starr!"

     The audience applauds enthusiastically, but in an entirely professional way. They have clearly never heard of Fanny Starr, or her smash hit holo-movie. Neither do they recognise her from her pretty smiling face, which has appeared on the screens behind their host. Max looks around for the Audience-Coordinator but fails to see him. He makes a note on the clipboard cradled in his left arm.

     "But that's not all," Spiro continues quickly, "Fanny is joined in the camp by none other than this season's leading offensive batter, in the Pan-dimensional Brockian Ultra Cricket League, with over seventeen knock outs and twenty-five submissions..." 

     The invited live audience is ahead of him, and an excited buzz shoots around the theatre. Several individuals are already back on their feet.  

     "Yes, that's right; please give a Celebrity Horror Camp welcome for the fabulous, Splat Braynematter!" 

     Now there is no controlling them. A swarm of green insectoids, from the Serpens Caput constellation, in a carefully choreographed manoeuvre, attempt to storm the stage to thank their host personally for such a great line-up. They are beaten back by a group of carefully choreographed powder-pink humanoid bouncers wielding soft rubber truncheons. They have clearly put in a lot of work to make it look realistic. Max makes another note on his clipboard.

     "Next up," the voice of Spiro announces, "lead singer with the sensational Coleopterans, all the way from their sell out tour of the beach resorts of Santraginus Five, let Spiro hear it for... Weevil Metamorphosis!"

     A young hermaphroditic space-penguin, amidst a sea of ecstatic tentacles, and other assorted neighbourly limbs, faints dead away... right in front of a vidibot. The vidibot moves on to its next shot. 

     Right on cue, Max Quordlepleen throws a mixture of shock and anxiety onto his face. His slave-cam, in scripted unscripted-mode, follows him shakily, and just a little out of focus, to the edge of the stage, where Max has a few quick words with the first aid team that had luckily been passing at just the right moment. "It's okay, everybody – he/she is going to be just fine. Emergency over," he says making a calming motion with his hands.

     Slowly, Max walks back to his mark, and takes a moment to blow out his cheeks. He shakes his head again, and tugs at his sequined jacket. "Spiro, are you still there?" he laughs.

     "I'm still here, Max."

     "Then they're all yours. Who else have you got for us?" 

     "Well, Max, let me give you a clue. Have you ever heard of a planet out on the Western spiral arm of this Galaxy? A small planet whose inhabitants are so backward that not one member of their species has ever left the confines of their own planetary system, save by abduction and invitation? A planet where writers describe in extraordinary detail the future exploits of their own kind beyond their local system, despite the fact that not one of their number has ever seen the planets described? A planet full of hopeless dreamers? A planet... called Earth?"

     Max looks thoughtful. He knows what is coming, but the zillions of viewers across the Galaxy do not know that he knows what is coming. As far as the viewing public are concerned this is as real as it gets. As far as the gullible elements, a clear and substantial majority of those watching are concerned, Max Quordlepleen is an intelligent humanoid, and if anyone has heard of this funny little planet, then that humanoid is Max Quordlepleen. He reputedly spoke one-hundred-and-twenty-six languages (he denies it, but it makes no difference), and for twelve years presented a popular, though erudite, vidicube quiz called, 'Big Brains Beget Big Bucks'. Max pinches the bridge of his nose and looks to the gantries for inspiration.

     "Well, Max?"

     Max Quordlepleen gives a resigned shrug, and he is about to give up, when the light of recognition puts in an appearance. "Tell me, Spiro," he says, "this planet – Earth, I believe you called it – is that where one or more of the former travelling companions of a certain ex-President of the Imperial Galactic Government originated?"

     "Correct!" says Spiro, as a collective sharp intake of breath is heard from the live audience.

     "You're not saying are you Spiro, that our next contestant, is actually Zaphod Beeblebrox?" Max says.

     "No, I'm not, Max - it is in fact one of those travelling companions that you mentioned, who goes by the name of Tricia McMillan."

     A practiced groan of disappointment wells up from the stalls and sweeps across the stage. Max staggers back in a comical way, grinning broadly and holding out his hands in a don't-blame-me gesture. Nevertheless, the groans turn to titters, then full-blown laughter, as the live audience realises that it was all a joke at their expense. Moreover, in more than a zillion homes, on more than a billion planets, circling more than a million stars, more than a hundred-thousand species, watching on their vidicubes, take their cue, and laugh along with Max Quordlepleen and the studio audience.

     Max turns to see the image of Trillian on the giant screen behind him. "That's one pretty primate," he says.

     "Next up, Max, one of the most recognisable voices across the sub-etha radio bands; a pioneer at the cutting edge of gunk rock presentation and programming; a being," Spiro says, keeping things vague, "who cannot walk through the cities of his home-world, without running the risk of not being recognised; a physiognomical non-entity, but a giant among jabbering jocks, and desperate to get his vidicube career off to a flyer, it can only be... 'The Voice', Vince Vapid!

     "Also joining us," says Spiro, cutting across the subsiding laughter, and still laughing himself, "more celebrities from the worlds of politics, the vidicube, holo-movies, sport, music, sub-etha wave radio, and the sex-o-matica. These additional guests, in the time-honoured tradition of Rukbat Realisations, will be introduced as the show develops."

     "Okay," says Max "let's get this show on the road..."

     "Oh, one last thing," Spiro interrupts, "before I forget, we do have one additional competitor who deserves, I think, a special mention."

     "And who would that be, Spiro?" Max asks, with a puzzled look playing across his expressive and handsome face. It is a look that says 'the line up is surely complete,' and, 'it's a brilliant line up,' and, 'why are you wasting our time with this, Spiro' and, as if that wasn't enough, 'the audience wants to get on with it.' He really is the only man for the job.

     "Well, Max I should have mentioned him earlier, but I got sidetracked. I am talking of the coup of the millennium. I am talking of none other than, one of the most notorious individuals ever to capture our imaginations. Yes, that's right, the one, the only..."

     "Spiro, will you please get on with it?" says Max at the crucial moment. "Just tell everybody who it is."

     "You want to know?" Spiro teases.

     "Yes, we really want to know. Just give us the name. If he's that big a catch, he won't need the build up."

     "Oh, all right," Spiro concedes, "it's Zaphod Beeblebrox!"

     The powder pink security staff, who had been pretending to relax at the back of the stage, as if they could not, for the life of them, countenance the possibility of further excitement, suddenly spring into life. Weeks of rehearsals are about to pay off. They rush to the front of the stage, but by design, they are too late to prevent Max Quordlepleen from being engulfed in a tsunami of primed quasi-fanatics intent on personally pumping the hand of the man who has brought such joy into their worthless lives. Max Quordlepleen is disappearing beneath a sea of assorted, multi-coloured bobbing heads – a carefully chosen cross section of the Galaxy's exotic menagerie, selected to appeal to both the more numerous vidicube-watching species, and those species within that social group with the largest disposable incomes.

     We can only just hear Max as he struggles to make himself heard over the noise of the screaming fans, but he is mouthing the words in an exaggerated way so that we get it: "We'll be right back after this short break," he says as he disappears into a massive inter-species group hug.


	3. A Visitor From Outer Space

**Chapter Three – A Visitor From Outer Space**

     Ford Prefect quickly ducked behind a spiny gorse bush, before anybody could see him. He took a quick peek at the flying saucer. It was still there, so he hadn't imagined it. The craft was of a type he hadn't seen before, but that wasn't so very surprising. There are more marques and models of vehicles flitting about the Galaxy than anyone could learn to recognise in several lifetimes. From the massive bulks of cargo ships to little two-seaters like the one he had just seen. Ford fished in his battered leather satchel for the Sub-Etha Sens-O-Matic. It was silent. The device looked okay, and yet it had failed to notify Ford of this extra-planetary visitation. The pilot must be using a jamming device, he thought. Selfish bastard. What is the point of carrying a Sub-Etha Sens-O-Matic and an Electronic Thumb if the very people you are trying to locate are invisible? 

     Ford crawled away from the bush, being careful to remain hidden. He circled the clearing, with the craft at its centre, from the safety of the undergrowth. The saucer's viewing bubble showed an absence of occupants. So somewhere close by, there must be one or two aliens of one sort or another. It wasn't a lot to go on. Then Ford began to think more clearly. He reasoned that the dimensions of the interior of the craft indicated creatures of a similar size to himself. Possibly smaller. They couldn't be that much bigger and still be comfortable in such a confined space. In addition, the controls, from what he could see of them, were designed for a humanoid species. The rubber grips on the two control sticks, with their little indentations to make their use more comfortable, when using the more prevalent arrangement of fingers and thumbs, were particularly indicative of type four humanoids, which includes Betelgeusians, and at a pinch Earthlings. 

     Not that Ford, for one moment, believed the owners to be from his home planet (or from Earth for that matter). Betelgeusians are much travelled, but the saucer's controls looked too simplistic for such an urbane species as his own. There weren't nearly enough buttons, or controls of any kind, and the only light was a little red one which blinked, and reflected off the inside of the Impregna-Glass bubble. Probably an anti-theft device, Ford guessed. In summary, the vehicle before him was clearly designed for an unsophisticated humanoid (type four) belonging to a species who travelled in interstellar space using technology other than their own. Unless, of course, its lack of sophistication was simply a stylistic consideration, but this is a concept that it is difficult for Betelgeusians to grasp. For a Betelgeusian a nutcracker is not simply two bits of metal hinged at one end, but an impressive gadget with lots of interesting switches that make pinging noises for no reason at all. 

     Ford was not, in the usual way of things, a thief. He considered the possibility, however, along with the notion that he might be able to persuade the owner to give him a lift somewhere, just so long as he or she didn't mind leaving their passenger behind, if they had one. On second thoughts, he decided to steal it – just in case. He was desperate to get off this bloody planet. At night, he would dream of chasing colossal hamburgers across vast pepperoni pizza fields and rivers of Arcturan Mega-gin. The pilot was nowhere to be seen, and Ford screwed his courage to the sticking-place, wherever that was.

     "Hello, Ford," said Arthur.

     So he was right the first time. The saucer belonged to an idiot. Ford turned to face Arthur, but did not see him. Instead standing in front of Ford was a relative of Arthur's who was using Arthur's voice. He looked young enough to be the Earthman's son. He also looked sufficiently like Arthur for Ford to wonder what had happened to his mother's genetic contribution. Ford had been on Earth long enough to be able to distinguish between one specimen of humanity and another, and then to be able to see the resemblance between two individuals of the same family, whilst still being able to tell them apart. Quite a feat if you can manage it. The stranger was smartly dressed in an immaculate, dark, crease proof suit, which looked very expensive to Ford's practised journalistic eye. It was the type of suit that usually came with integral cleaner nanobots, so that the wearer never had to take it off to wash it. Very flash. 

     Ford decided to give his larynx a long needed workout. 

     "Hello," he said.

     "How are you, Ford?" said the Earthman, "It's been a long time."

     "Since when?"

     "Since I last saw you."

     Ford mulled this over. As far as he could remember, he had never met Arthur's son. He didn't even realise that Arthur had a son. He let it go. 

     "How is your father," he said for want of anything else to say.

     "My father perished when the Earth was destroyed by the Vogons. I thought you knew that," the stranger said. "You don't recognise me, do you, Ford?"

     "Arthur?"

     "Yes?"

     "Is that really you?"

     "Yes."

     "What happened? You look different. When you escaped in the teaser ship...." 

     "Ah, but I was so much older then," said Arthur, "I'm younger than that now."

     Ford took a moment to appraise his friend, Arthur Dent. He started at the top and worked his way down. He did look a lot younger. The worry lines had gone, but the worry that causes worry lines, Ford noted, remained. Arthur would never be entirely comfortable in the Galaxy at large. He may have come to accept his lot, by and large, but he reserved the right to fly into a blind panic whenever the occasion demanded. Sometimes he simply  panicked because the complete weirdness of his situation demanded a little letting off of steam, now and then, if only to preserve what was left of his sanity. 

     Arthur had also lost some weight, and appeared leaner and fitter. He had lost the dressing gown and pyjamas, and this had given Arthur a more confident bearing. However, it may have been the suit doing that. An ensemble, like the one Arthur was wearing, does not come cheap. Nevertheless, if you can afford the initial outlay, you will make on the deal in the fullness of time, as you will never have to buy another set of clothes, or pay for the dry cleaning. The open-necked shirt was obviously out of the same stable, as it had changed its appearance since Ford had first seen it. The shirt had started out as a brilliant white, which complemented the blackness of the suit perfectly, but had since developed dark blue stripes against an off-white background. Ford hadn't seen it change, it just had. The suit probably shared this feature, but would have been programmed, given the way these things usually worked, to change less often. The black shoes were both practical and smart. They looked as if you could run a sub-four minute mile in them without breaking sweat. 

     "Arthur," said Ford, "forgive me for asking, but where did you get the money to buy..."

     "A flying saucer?"

     "You own the flyer?" Ford asked incredulously. "You mean to tell me that you actually own it?"

     "I've been working," said Arthur, simply.

     "Actually, I was going to ask about the suit."

     "I own this as well."

     "Yes, I had assumed as much. It was obviously made for you. It's a perfect fit."

     "Are you hungry, Ford?"

    "Not ravenously. I still have some gerbils left over from this morning. Why what have you got?"

     "Oh, just a few leftovers from the cafeteria – a brace of stuffed poulets glazed with yellow-bee honey, with vegetables crisped in virgin kelp oil, and a medley of exotic fruits for dessert," said Arthur, casually, "oh, and I think there's some Hawalius goat's cheese and biscuits, if you just want a snack."

     "I'd have preferred a couple of burgers, but what the hell, let's eat, and then you can tell me all about this job of yours."

     Arthur retrieved the food hamper and a blanket from the boot of the flying saucer, and arranged a picnic on the grass. 

     To be continued...

     ****


	4. Raptors

     **Chapter Four – Raptors**

     The various minor celebrities and megastars unpacked their rucksacks, and arranged the contents around their chosen camp beds. The complicated ritual of selecting a bed for maximum exposure to the invisicams, with full consideration to whom each contestant wanted as their neighbour for the week ahead, played out against a barrage of excited banter. Zaphod Beeblebrox and Trillian selected adjacent beds, with Zaphod keeping a close eye on Splat to make sure he didn't choose one too close to their own corner of the jungle clearing. It was not because Zaphod was afraid of the cricketer, he was, but because his ego didn't like the competition. If Zaphod wanted better treatment at the hands of the Imperial Galactic Government Prison Service, then he needed to make a good impression with the public, and a being of Splat Braynematter's undoubted presence would only cramp his style. Splat's singular presence tended to draw the eye – and he only had the one head.

     Of Weevil Metamorphosis he had no such fears. He may be big now but the celebrity universe of gunk-rock was a fickle mistress, which presumably was why Weevil had applied to be on the show. Zaphod had enjoyed a long held reputation for being the hoopiest frood in the Galaxy, and there was no way he was going to be out-cooled by a transient rocker. This time next year, Zaphod reasoned, nobody would even remember Weevil What's-His-name.   

     Trillian watched Splat as he leant his cricket bat against a tree. He was the most triangular specimen of humanoidality she had ever seen. A big square head and a big square lantern jaw topped the triangle. He was also one of the scariest alien specimens she could conceive of. The eyes, when visible, resembled those of a reptile, and it was this aspect of his appearance, more than any other, which assured his success on the cricket field. Most of Splat Braynematter's opponents either dropped dead on the spot when they saw him bearing down on them, or made good use of their running spikes and got the zark out of the way. They appeared to have no depth whatsoever, and stared with an expressionless gaze straight ahead and through whatever, or whomever, he happened to be facing. It wasn't so bad when he was wearing shades, which he did a lot, but it wasn't much better either. The long arms, resembling plaited steel ropes, were finished off with huge shovel-like hands, which swung at around the level of his ankles when walking with his short powerful legs. He wore little in the way of clothes, opting, as was his wont, for a simple white leotard and flip-flops. 

     *****

     A couple of easy chairs have appeared at the centre of the stage. Max Quordlepleen has changed into a light green and purple striped jumpsuit with matching boat shoes, one green, one purple, and occupies one of the chairs. 

     "Welcome back," says Max. "I have with me Gag Halfrunt, who is well-known as the Private Brain Care Specialist to the stars, including one Zaphod Beeblebrox, his most famous client. Gag Halfrunt, welcome to Celebrity Horror Camp."

     "Thank you, it's a great pleasure to be here," says Gag, leaning forward from the other chair, and shaking Max Quordlepleen by the hand.

     "I'm sure all of our viewers would welcome an insight," says Max, "into one of the most notorious individuals of this or any other age. We all know about the ex-President's incredibly complex psychological and psychiatric problems. To be schizophrenic is bad enough, but to be schizophrenic in both heads is beyond the comprehension of most analysts, we hear, yet alone non-specialists. Tell me, Gag, what is your take on Zaphod Beeblebrox?"

     "Well," said Gag Halfrunt cheerfully, "Zaphod's just this guy, you..."

     "I'm sorry," says Max, "but I'm getting a message from our reporter on the ground. Are you there, Sally Linklater?"

     The image of Sally appears on the giant screen behind Max Quordlepleen and then the studio fades from view and all we see is the reporter. "Yes I am, Max. We have some sensational news for you, coming from the camp surrounds. The celebs don't know it yet, but they soon will – there's a pack of something like twelve or thirteen, possibly more, raptors in the area, and as I speak they're moving towards the camp. The invisicams are tracking their progress, and the good news is they look hungry. We are expecting scenes of high carnage. Well, I'm joined now by the sauro-biologist, Professor Lizzie Shaw, of the Reptilian Institute," Sally says, turning to face the serious-looking woman standing next to her. "Professor, just how dangerous are these guys?"

     "I'd hardly call them 'guys' - they're animals, after all. And, yes, they are extremely dangerous, and would cause one hell of a mess should any of the contestants encounter them. Raptors are typically characterised by their intelligence, speed, and razor sharp teeth. They also have an elongated talon on each foot resembling a curved dagger. An unarmed being of similar size would stand little chance against one, but against a pack, no chance whatsoever. So let us hope, for the sake of the contestants, that they keep their distance."

     Sally Linklater frowns. She appears less keen on the idea of separation. "So from what you're saying, Professor Shaw, we can expect to see blood spilt in any such encounter," she says with a hopeful look.

     "Obviously. I would ask one question and that is - how did they get here in the first place? Raptors are not indigenous to Rukbat Four in this period of its geological development."

     Sally, we see, is looking a little shifty and replies: "This is something of a puzzle, and something that I cannot answer. However, they weren't brought in for the show, I can assure you of that. As far as anyone can remember there have always been raptors on this planet, though as you say they may not be indigenous. Perhaps they were imported for a zoo or similar and were released when the project fell through."

     Professor Lizzie Shaw clearly doesn't believe a word of it. Her face says so, but her voice is unheard as we return to the studio.

     Then we see the smiling face of Max Quordlepleen, "We shall, of course keep you fully informed of developments as we receive them," says Max, "but first a word from our sponsors."

     *****

     Weevil was the first to sidle up to Zaphod Beeblebrox. "Hey man, how's it hanging?" 

     "Er... Yeah, cool man," Zaphod said, affecting not to know who he was talking to. 

     "Weevil Metamorphosis," said Weevil Metamorphosis.

     "Oh yeah," said Zaphod, with generosity, but with just a hint of puzzlement.

     "Lead singer with the Coleopterans," offered Weevil, "I heard you were here, man. Sorry to here about the bust. Must've been a real pisser. How have they been treating you?"

     "You get used to it," said Zaphod, nonchalantly.

     "I heard they nabbed you in a space-bar. You were on your third Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster, way I heard it.

     "Fourth."

     "So what're you doing here? I can dig why the rest of us are putting our reps on the line. Guess we need the exposure," said Weevil, laughing self-deprecatingly. 

     "Yeah, well I've got my reasons," said Zaphod with a generous keep-it-to-yourself wink.

     Weevil looked around for clues and didn't find any. There was no way anyone was going to get out of this gig, unless it was in an ambulance. Once you're in, you're in. But then again, the Big Zee was known for his convoluted strategies. "So, er... wanna tell me about it?" said Weevil.

     Zaphod fixed Weevil with a good humoured stare and raised his eyes to the tree line. 

     "Oh yeah, right," said Weevil. "Yeah, like I dig it, man - you don't want to give anything away. Wow!" said Weevil falling for it.

    Zaphod saw his opportunity to end the conversation whilst he was ahead, and dismissed the rocker with a light gesture. It was aimed at Weevil, but intended for the benefit of the invisicams. "Catch you later," said Zaphod.

     He had been stupid, of that there was no doubt. Okay, so it was just a seedy little space-bar hollowed out of an asteroid, but he'd seen the Vogons straight away. The trouble was he'd had a raging thirst and had insisted on a change of scenery, and had remembered the bar from a previous visit to that sector. His easy-going relaxed demeanour had thrown the Vogons at first. Zaphod supposed that they just couldn't believe that the ex-President would be that stupid. However, the Vogons being Vogons were sufficiently stupid themselves not to realise just how stupid Zaphod could be at times. Even as they arrested him, they couldn't get their dull brains around the concept. Perhaps they suspected that the whole situation was a training exercise, thought Zaphod. A test, despite their being on shore leave, set up by their ship's Captain using a look-alike. Zaphod sometimes wondered if some part of him wanted to end the chase, to submit to the authorities and take his punishment. He was certainly tired of running. And he hadn't turned around when he saw them and walked straight back out again.

    The sentence when it finally arrived was harsh – twenty standard years, without remission, and his assets frozen. He'd get the money back one day, his lawyers would see to that. But it wasn't in their interests to conclude matters swiftly and the lead barrister had reckoned the whole case could drag through the courts for decades. Zaphod would still be poor when he got out. If Zaphod could have used the capital from his various moneymaking schemes, he could then have bought himself a place in one of the more comfortable prisons. Instead he found himself incarcerated in an establishment that didn't even have a bar, yet alone a leisure complex. He stuck it at first, but the months dragged on until he could stand it no longer. He had asked to see the Governor. Initially, he was reluctant. However, the Governor finally conceded to slot Zaphod into one of the job opportunities to help pay for his keep in cosier surroundings. The Vogons couldn't give a Bugblatter's fart if the criminal fraternity had it easy just so long as they could pay their way. Vogons are, if anything, grateful for the work afforded them by the felons. Nobody pretended anymore about justice, or the punishment fitting the crime. Prisons do not come cheap and the punishment needed to fit the purse.

     As Trillian had been arrested at the same time, Zaphod had felt an obligation to put in a word for her. After all, it wasn't her fault. She just came along for the ride. She had only been given five standard years, and would cope better than him, but what the hell - a change is as good as a rest, and this was shaping up quite nicely. The sun was out, it was warm, and could be more relaxing than a quiet idyllic spot in the middle of the jungle. There was just one niggling doubt – why the mindwipe? Zaphod struggled to remember the show from its previous incarnations. There was something that they didn't want the contestants to remember. It was probably nothing. Maybe there wouldn't be a show if the contestants could recall what had happened in the previous shows. No element of surprise to capture on the invisicams, Zaphod concluded. Still everyone in the camp was pretty relaxed. Whatever it was about this show that he, and the other contestants, couldn't remember it couldn't be that important.

     Zaphod had just settled down on his camp bed, and closed his eyes, when he heard raised voices in the distance. Presently, one of the minor celebrities, sprinted through the camp with half a dozen Hollywood-sized raptors nipping at his rump. He shot up a steep embankment leaving the raptors barking at his rapidly receding back. Now this was an interesting situation, thought Zaphod. A pretty girl, with 'Fanny' emblazoned across her chest, screamed. This had the immediate effect, much to Fanny's (and everybody else's) obvious dismay, of drawing the attention of the raptors away from the now unobtainable object of their pursuit, towards the static and eminently obtainable figures that stood open mouthed all around them.


	5. Rolling Back the Years

     **Chapter Five – Rolling Back the Years**

     They had eaten in silence, enjoying each other's company, which was particularly poignant for Ford who had been alone for so long. He appraised his friend in his expensive suit, and looked for evidence of a new matching persona. It is said, "The Clothes Maketh the Man." The jury was still out on this occasion, however. Arthur looked well enough – for a start he'd not only lost a little weight, but had lost a few years to boot. There was something else about Arthur that Ford was trying to pin down. He was more confident for a start, and his bearing was upright – he had lost the resigned slump of the shoulders, which seemed to invite the Galaxy and his wife to take a pot shot just for the hell of it. 

     As Arthur put the picnic hamper away in the boot of the flying saucer, Ford launched into his interrogation.

     "Did you pay for your new-found youthfulness as well?"

     "No, that came with the job," said Arthur. "The fact is, Ford, I got a position on one of the big galactic buses."

     "You worked for the Galactic Bus Company?" said Ford incredulously. "Those things can really move. I heard they never stop, but just keep going around and around. So that's how you shed the years. Well, well, well. There's a lot more to you than meets the eye."

     "I was little more than a slave, actually," said Arthur, matter-of-factly, "otherwise they'd have never let me anywhere near it."

     Arthur explained how, after his escape from their present location in the teaser ship, he had been captured by space pirates, and sold to a family of wealthy merchants who were on their way to an upload planet from where they joined the bus. The teasers, on the other hand, had been able persuade their parents to transfer the necessary funds to secure their release from the pirates' clutches. 

     It wasn't all bad, however. The Galactic Bus Co run, as Ford already knew, massive luxury cruise liners for the super-rich, and even a slave could thank his lucky stars for a berth in the servants' quarters.

     Things had really started to look up for Arthur, however, when he happened innocently to mention his status – or lack of it – to a member of the bus crew. Slavery, abolished in the more enlightened quadrants, or at least those quadrants where it was not economically viable, was unacceptable under the conditions of carriage as set out on the company's home world. If the Galactic Bus Co weren't allowed to have slaves, then they weren't going to let the passengers have them either.

     Ford didn't need to ask about Arthur's relative youthfulness. If you travel at those speeds and for any length of time, you grow younger as every schoolbeing knows. Nevertheless, that still didn't explain the classy threads and personal transportation.

     Arthur anticipated Ford's next question and continued with his tale. 

     "To cut a long story short – I can always fill in the detail later if you're really interested – my master, a sort warthog without the social graces, had to start paying me, and he had to pay me at least the minimum wage. There are also laws which state that an employee must be treated with respect and receive the regulation standard of comfort in the way of sustenance, clothing and habitat. This was not a problem for the majority of passengers, as they would of necessity have the funds to pay for said standards."

     "Then what is the point of having slaves in the first place?" asked Ford. "If somebody's that rich, why not just employ servants?"

     "It's a status thing, apparently," said Arthur. "The race that bought me put great store by how many slaves they have, and how exotic the species that make up their menagerie happens to be. To my masters I was a particularly exotic curiosity it would seem. The younger family members would take great delight in taking me on shopping expeditions to one of the ships many department stores, and that's how I obtained the suit. They thought I was beginning to whiff a bit, I think, and the suit need never be taken off as it cleans itself as well as the occupant. The only real practical difference between servants and slaves comes down to one thing and one thing only: Freedom."

     "I see. So what you are saying is that they eventually paid you sufficiently well to buy the saucer?"

     "No," said Arthur, "it was a long time until I was released following my comments to the purser, and I received a substantial amount of pay, backdated to the day we boarded the bus. I immediately resigned and spent the lot so that I could come back and find you, supposing you hadn't thumbed a lift off the planet. It's a nice planet, though. There are worse places to be marooned."

  
     *****

     Ford made himself at home in the driver's seat, and started looking for buttons to press. There weren't any. "How does it work?" he asked Arthur who was pulling down the viewing bubble from the passenger side.

     "If you don't know how it works then why are sitting on that side?" said Arthur.

     "You mean you flew this thing all the way here by yourself?"

     "How else do you think I got here?" said Arthur irritably. 

     "Yes, well there is that I suppose," said Ford, "but I just couldn't quite bring myself to believe it."

     "Move out of the way. I'll do it," said Arthur.

     Arthur and Ford attempted to change places in the cramped interior of the saucer, but soon gave it up as hopeless. Arthur released the viewing bubble, which gave them the additional headroom to make the manoeuvre.

     With Arthur in the driving seat, they settled back for the flight ahead.

     "Don't take this the wrong way Arthur, but..."

     "You don't trust me to fly the saucer, do you Ford. Don't worry, you can say it. I am within evolutionary spitting distance of a Neanderthal, after all. The fact that I managed to navigate this alien craft, with its alien technology, all the way back to this little rock in the back of beyond obviously counts for nothing. I have been gone for a year or two – I really don't know what a year is anymore - but that's only from your perspective. To be honest I lost track of the passage of time, there were no seasons on the bus to measure it by, but it was a lot longer than a couple of years for me. How much can a person learn in that time? I don't think that even you realise how long you could have been marooned here if I hadn't had the decency to come back for you."

     "Arthur, what can I say?"

     "Well, you could start by apologising for the lack of faith you have shown in me."

     Ford felt deflated. "I'm sorry," he said, simply.

     "Apology accepted," said Arthur. "Now, where shall we go?"

     Ford had no plans, other than getting off the planet that had been his home for far too long, and there were a great many places he had been thinking about during his time on the island. There were planets he hadn't seen in over a hundred years, bars with happy and sad memories, cities where he had found love and lost it again; all swam through his head in a kaleidoscope of memory fragments. 

     "Let's just cruise for a bit," he said finally.

     "Dave," said Arthur.

     "Yes, Guv. Where to?" said the flying saucer.

     "Oh just get us off the planet for now."

     "Right you are mate!" said Dave, and the little metallic-red two-seater flying saucer lifted effortlessly from the ground and swung away towards the clouds.

     "This is a great little machine," said Arthur with a mischievous grin, "you just tell it where you want to go and it does the rest all by itself. Even an idiot like me can fly it."

     "Really?"

     "Oh, yes. Are you sure you've got everything with you, this time?" Arthur asked, barely able to contain his glee.

     "Yes, thank you Arthur. I even have my towel with me, but not for long. I intend to buy a new one the first opportunity I get. This one's had it. There's no colour in it any more, because it has been washed with a criminal disregard for the care instructions which appeared on the little tag with the Marks & Spencer's logo, which by the way is long gone. However, it will serve for one last purpose before I send it to that great laundry basket in the sky."

     "Oh yes," said Arthur, "and what would that be?"

     "I'm going to use it to strangle the last remaining Earthman in the Galaxy."

     To be continued...


	6. The Galactic Bus Co

**Chapter Six – The Galactic Bus Company**

     The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxyhas this to say on the subject of the Galactic Bus Company: 

     The Galaxy's first and biggest interstellar passenger liner service boasts, and with good reason. No other service can match the splendour of the Galactic Bus Company's fleet. The company's ships pick up at more destinations than any other. None are quicker and none more prestigious. And none so mind-bogglingly massive. In addition, no other can match the special package deals offered to the tourist class passengers - it would put them out of business if they did, and so their tend to ply their trade along the less popular local routes, which not surprisingly are also less lucrative, but profitable enough nonetheless to keep their craft aloft. 

     It is generally held to be true that in order to enjoy the luxuries of first-class accommodation with the Galactic Bus Co, the premium rates suffered by the more affluent entities help to subsidise the relatively underprivileged entities, or at least those who might otherwise afford it but are prepared to put up with the stigma of travelling tourist-class through meanness. This allows those occupying the higher income brackets to assuage any guilt they might feel concerning their undeserved good fortune with at least a modicum of altruism for all the good they are doing below decks. Conspicuous consumption is the name of the game and consumption does not come any more conspicuous than a first class berth on one of the luxury liners of the Galactic Bus Company. 

     There is a way around this, however, for any social aspirants aboard. For a comparatively small supplement, tours of the first class accommodation suites are offered (as one of the many in-bus 'excursions') to those with more sense than money, but without sufficient sense to be honest, and without the necessarily deep pockets to do it properly. Extras include reproduction first-class tickets which can be bought by anyone wanting to boast to their friends back home that they were billeted with the filthy rich. 

     Those passengers taking the tour are also given the option of undergoing a selective memory enhancement, which will enable them to better 'remember' the details of the plush surroundings to be found in the posh bit of the bus. Nonetheless, this technique has still to be perfected, and one way of spotting the snobs who avail themselves of this opportunity is to question them on the tiniest details a propos first-class accommodation. If they can remember, to give but one example, what they were served at each meal, and on what day, the chances are that their trip has been cerebrally augmented. This, of course, makes the whole exercise pointless – and many an excursionist would have done much better to have undergone a complete personality makeover (also available for a fee) whereupon they can stick out their once proud chests and declare that they couldn't a bugblatter's fart one way or the other. Pragmatically speaking, it's either that or stump up the difference. Others prefer to simply brag that they wanted to see what life was like in the plebs quarters and so opted for the package deal 'this time'. This approach is the cheaper option, particularly for those who have been found out on previous occasions.

     Naturally, enhanced social status on one's return is just one of the advantages of travelling by bus. 

     The main benefit however derives from the effects of travelling at such colossal speeds across the fantastic distances between the stars. When the buses aren't taking shortcuts through wormholes (unreliable at the best of times), or taking advantage of naturally occurring folds in the fabric of space-time (something of a movable feast in that they tend to migrate back and forth across the Galaxy), or bobbing in and out of hyperspace (prohibitively expensive for extensive periods), they are zipping across the cosmos at velocities approaching that of the speed of light (reliable but relatively slow when compared to the other options). It is for this last method that many passengers make the trip. 

     They are, however, and for the most part, not the least bit concerned with the business of getting from point A to point B. Why should they? What could there possibly be at point B that couldn't be imported from point B to point A, thus saving everybody the bother of travelling to point B from point A simply to bring back whatever it was at point B that they wanted to be available at point A in the first place? Let someone else do it. No, the simple fact is that few if any individuals at point A (or point B for that matter) need to travel between point A and B (or point C, but let's not go there!) save for one simple fact. In a word, rejuvenation. 

     It is not possible for carbon-based lifeforms to travel at such speeds and not end the trip younger than when they began it. Indeed, most passengers simply get off the bus at the very point that they boarded it. The only real disadvantage is that the dilution of time during the round trip means that they spend less time on the bus than has elapsed at the local bus depot, and they may not recognise their home-world on alighting, but given the nature of interplanetary diplomacy, or more seriously the lack of diplomacy, they may find that their home-world isn't still there when they get back. 

     Broadly speaking, the rejuvenation of the Galactic Bus Company's customers goes a long way to explaining the Company's laid back attitude towards the Infinite Improbability Drive and all who sail in her. It may be a zark sight quicker at getting you somewhere other than where you are, but without the benefit of making the shareholders of the GBC any more affluent than they already are. In fact, the Company doesn't do that either for many of its shareholders as they have fallen prey to local windfall taxation law, and have had limitations placed on their income after it became apparent that the Galaxy itself was liable to fall into the hands of an extremely wealthy but youthful oligarchy. Neither were they allowed to leave the planet for tax havens in neighbouring systems for fear of a collapse in the local economy. 

     It seems you can have too much of a good thing.

     Many believe the real winners are the crew members who periodically retire on fat pensions when they reach the age of puberty, so as not to contravene the pan-Galactic Child Employment Legislation, only to rejoin the ships again as soon as they are old enough to offer a few more years service before retiring again. 

     It would be a shame to let all that experience go to waste. 


	7. Lunchtime

**Chapter Seven – Lunchtime**

     Slowly, the raptors looked about them. 

     The contestants backed off. The majority had the good sense to make a run for it through the trees making sure to take the popular routes and not end up as the defenceless tail-end Charlie. They pushed and shoved for position before putting as much distance between them and the pursuing raptors. The more quick witted and fleet of foot would be safe, they hoped, as the raptors would surely run down the slower celebs and forget about them. 

     They were right. The first victim was the weatherman whose name nobody could remember, and who had piled on the pounds since he had disappeared from the vidicube screens some years ago.

     Zaphod Beeblebrox stood transfixed. It wasn't that he was slow witted or that he couldn't show an impressive turn of speed when it suited him. It was just bad luck. He was hemmed in with dense foliage behind. There was nowhere to run.

     "Zaphod, what the hell are you doing? Get up here," said Trillian. 

     There was something odd about her voice. It wasn't the tone or pitch, but there was something about the angle at which it hit Zaphod's ears. It was as if it was coming from a place that voices ordinarily don't come from when the mouth emitting the sounds is attached to a person you believe to be standing directly at your back. 

     It was a puzzle that would have to wait as a particularly impressive specimen turned its salivating jaws towards the ex-President. And then Zaphod noticed the other two. There were only three left in the camp proper and they were fanning out in a pincer movement with what Zaphod supposed to be the alpha male in the centre. He fixed Zaphod with a hungry look. 

     Zaphod used one of his heads to keep an eye on the big raptor in the centre and relied on his peripheral vision to keep track of the one off to the right. He used the other head for staring wide-eyed with mouth agape at the raptor to his left, whilst his intestines made a bolt for his sphincter, only to find the way barred by two powerfully clenched buttocks. His other internal organs cascaded around his ribcage desperately looking for a way out.

     "Move it, Zaphod. There's no time."

     Again Zaphod felt there was something odd about the direction of Trillian's voice. The raptors were closing in and he took a step back. As his heel caught on the root of a tree and he fell backwards, the Trillian-related voice-puzzle resolved itself. As he lay there he saw her sitting high above him in the tree. He would climb the tree, he decided, giving renewed hope to those bits of him trying to get away, and find a safe perch away from the teeth and talons of the would-be diners at ground level.

     It was then that he smelled the foul stench of a carnivore's breath. Fortunately he had momentarily closed his eyes so that he didn't see the two rows of biters through which the breath had passed. He said his prayers. Better late than never, he thought. If God existed then he would surely have a sense of humour, and if anyone had given the Big Guy Upstairs cause for merriment, then that person was Zaphod Beeblebrox, ex-hippy and ex-President of the Imperial Galactic Government. Stands to reason that He had a sense of humour. Didn't it? It hadn't been a bad life. Not really. All things considered. Zarquon be merciful, he prayed. 

     As he ran out of philosophy – it wasn't really working anyway – he thought he would change tack. He filled both lungs to their full capacity, and in full view of a vidicube audience of countless squillions, let out a scream the like of which could wake the dead on this and a couple of the neighbouring planets to boot.

     The sound that Zaphod heard next was peculiarly unlike the one he was expecting. Instead of the crunching sound of molars on Betelgeusian skull, it sounded more like the dull thud of a large heavy object coming into contact with a cranium of non-Betelgeusian origin. He had particular reason to think so because he was the only Betelgeusian in the immediate vicinity and hadn't felt the pain one would ordinarily associate with the sound. It was time for Zaphod to open his eyes again.

     Instead of the slippery interior of an outsized velociraptor's front end he saw the muscular back that he knew could only belong to the cricketer, Splat Braynematter. Zaphod peered through Splat's short stumpy but powerful legs and saw the reptile twitching in its death throes. He quickly looked around for the other two and saw that they were still approaching, but with more caution. Nonetheless they were heading in a direction he would have preferred them not to. He shot up the tree with the speed of a squirrel surprised by a fox, but with none of the agility and an additional helping of blind panic. His squidgier internal bits returned to their more accustomed positions, breathed a huge sigh of relief and threw a party. Safe he left Splat to get on with it. He would only have got in the way he would explain later.

     From his high vantage point he watched a master in action. Splat went on the offensive. This tactic clearly perplexed the raptors as they were more accustomed to their lunch running away from them, and the thrill of the chase was part of the deal. Food ran away, that's what it did. They ran after it, and if they ran quickly enough and worked as a team they got to eat it. They certainly didn't expect it to come marching towards them with an expression of relish for the violence which preceded their every meal. The food was trying to psyche them out and in some measure it was succeeding. This was totally against the natural order of things. What is the point of a food chain if the very links that were made for eating started to go on the offensive? It should have been the other way about. The raptors were obviously confused and they certainly didn't do running away. It wasn't in their nature. However, the raptors saw something in Splat's cold reptilian eyes as he removed his shades that said this time it was going to be different. Yet it was still two against one. They yipped and danced excitedly on their toes, and then sprang as one. 

     In a single stroke, that appeared to be no more than a blur, Splat brained the remaining predators, before marching off into the jungle to see what all the screaming was about.

     Zaphod and Trillian remained in the tree surveying the scene of carnage below. 

     "How do you think I came across?" said Zaphod with a pitifully desperate look towards Trillian.

     "Let me see now," said Trillian slowly. "I suppose in part it depends on whether or not the whole scene is edited in close-ups, or whether the producer opts for the wide angled shots. Perhaps she'll use a bit of both."

     "She?" said Zaphod, his voice still quivering as if he was speaking through a jelly microphone. "Do you know the producer?"

     "We both met her. You've forgotten that's all. She was the woman you insulted in the celebrity lounge before we left the studios to come here, straight after the mindwipe."

     "Zark!"

     "Zark, indeed. If I remember correctly your exact words were: 'Not coming with us? Never mind, perhaps one day they'll do an ugly people special. Yours is bound to be the first name on the list,'" Trillian said in a matter of fact way.

     "Zarking fardwarks!" 

     "So in answer to your question, Zaphod, I'd say there's a pretty good chance that the edited highlights will show it exactly as it happened."


	8. Make Your Mind Up Time

**     Chapter Eight – Make Your Mind Up Time**

     Ford tapped at the buttons of his copy of the Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy He kept one eye on the projection above him on the starboard side of the saucer's viewing bubble. For an overview of a planet it is best to view it from the air, and the images captured by the cameras, during the saucer's sweeps over the oceans and scattered land mass of Ford's home for the last two-point-four local years, would go a long way to beefing up his entries before he sent them off to be processed on Ursa Minor Beta. 

     Zipping through the cosmos in a little two-seater flying saucer, with his friend, Arthur Dent, he had the best of both worlds. His experience on the ground allowed him to compose his thoughts in such a way that any visitors to the island, on which he had been stranded, would feel immediately at home, and the images captured from the air would add much to his description of the planet as a whole. 

     As beautiful as the planet was, the island was still the main attraction. When the teasers had first landed on the planet, with Arthur and himself on board, they had chosen the location because they had been there before. It was their secret little paradise which nobody else in the Galaxy knew about. Ford was about to change all that. He'd had plenty of time to organise his thoughts during his enforced stay, and right now he was on a roll. The words just kept coming. 

     He didn't mind so much anymore that the teasers hadn't come back for him. That hadn't stopped him calling them all the names under a thousand suns, but he supposed they'd had their reasons for staying away. The cops had tracked them there, after all. Not that Ford or Arthur knew why, of course. They were hardly going to confide in a couple of hitch hikers. He put the teasers out of his mind and continued to punch the buttons on the Guide. 

     Ford Prefect sat back in the passenger seat and stretched his arms out behind him. He reached up and touched the projection's off icon, and the moving aerial images of the planet folded in on themselves before winking out of existence.

    "You know Arthur, this is the life. We can go anywhere in the Universe, and all we have to do is ask Dave. Zap, and we're there. Amazing!"

     "Actually, Ford, I did know that. It's my flying saucer, remember?" said Arthur, not looking down from the game of backgammon, which he was playing against, Dave, the saucer's onboard computer. The board was displayed on the inner canopy membrane, on the port side, and the Earthman was winning for the first time since teaching Dave the game. He only needed a couple of singles, or a gammon, to win the match.

     "Yeah, but I mean, this is like, really amazing!"

     "So you keep telling me. Have you decided where you want to go?" said Arthur, completing a six-point block after throwing a lucky double-one. "How about Betelgeuse?"

     "It's a possibility," said Ford, gazing out at the constellation of the Anglepoise-Lamp. "It's certainly familiar - perhaps a bit too much. I need to ease myself back into the familiar. One step at a time and all that. Somewhere a bit quieter to start with, I think," Ford said, as he leaned across from the starboard side, and terminated the game, with a quick tap at the Impregna-glass. "Are you listening, Arthur? This is important."

     "Oh, thank you very much," said Arthur. "If you knew how many matches I've played to get into a winning position like..."

     "We've got to talk about this. Arthur, we can't just go careering aimlessly around the Galaxy."

     "I don't see why not – it's what we usually do. I was just two points away..."

     "It's only a silly game. It's not important. You can pick it up again later."

     Arthur relaxed into the contoured chair, and asked Dave to give him a massage. The chair sprang to life and moulded itself to the back of his neck, shoulders, and lower back. It started to gently knead his tired muscles back to some semblance of normality. He had to admit it - he had been playing for far too long, but beating Dave, at the game he had taught the invisible pilot, had become a obsession. Once, he had suspected Dave of cheating, but had reluctantly arrived at the conclusion that he was just crap at backgammon. After all, he had never won a single match in the Horse and Groom, back on Earth, where he would subject himself to the humiliating ritual of the pub's annual tournament.

     "It's up to you," he said at last. "Pick a star and we'll go there."

     "I'll think about it for a bit," said Ford.

     "Gents, I'm picking up some vidicube transmissions, if your up for a little light entertainment," Dave cut in.

     Between them they agreed that a little diversion wouldn't go amiss, whilst Ford made up his mind about where he wanted to make his first stop.

     "I'll chuck it up on the bubble," said Dave.

     The stars disappeared from view to be replaced by the big cheesy grin of Max Quordlepleen wearing an expensive suit like Arthur's, but without the conservative colour scheme. It flashed like a set of hyperactive traffic lights with a grudge against motorists. 

     "Welcome back," said Max.

     Arthur didn't recognise him, and Ford wished that he didn't recognise him.

     "It's that cretin from the Restaurant at the End of the Universe," said Ford. "We saw him there once. Do you remember?"

     "Can't say that I do," said Arthur. "I couldn't have been paying much attention. Perhaps my mind was elsewhere."

     "Lucky for you if it was. He's the biggest light entertainer in the Galaxy. He's also one of the biggest idiots. There's nothing he wouldn't do to get his stupid face on the vidicube. He's got about as much appeal as a Vogon with a migraine."

     "Sounds delightful. Not your cup of tea then?"

     "There must be something better than this," said Ford, pulling the sort of face that belonged in a dentist's waiting room. "Can we switch it over, Dave?"

     "Sorry, Guv, it's the only channel this far out from the Galactic Hub," said Dave. "I've seen bits and pieces of it. It's got that cricketer, Splat Braynematter, in it. And Zaphod Beeblebrox, though I don't care much for him, myself. Made a right pillock of himself, he did. Shat his pants during a raptor attack on the camp..."

     "Zaphod Beeblebrox?" queried Ford.

     "Er, yeah, you know... the ex-President of the..."

     "Yes, thank you, Dave – I do know who Zaphod Beeblebrox is. He happens to be my semi-cousin." 

     "Oh, right. No offence, mate – didn't realise you were related."

     "None taken. You're right, of course, he is a pillock. I was just surprised, that's all," said Ford. "Well, well - who would have thought it."

     The plump figure of a garish red and green Meta-Parrot replaced Max Quordlepleen on the screen. It was holding a microphone, and squawking into an invisicam. "Yes, that's right Max. Here at the camp things are beginning to settle down again after all the excitement of last night," the Meta-Parrot said. He was sitting high in a tree, and below him the contestants could be seen milling around. "It was not a brilliant first day for the Big Zee who has moved out in the betting. If he's going to get back in amongst the front runners, then he's really gonna have to pull his finger out. The smart money's all on the cricketer right now, but as he's odds on favourite to take the show you won't get much of a return, providing that is, you can find a bookie who'll take the bet. There really is no one to touch him. So, if you are able to have a punt, then Splat-the-Bat's your cat. This is Pollyanne handing you back to the studio..."

     Arthur stared at the images with his resigned here-we-go-again face, which he kept in a safe place for just this sort of occasion. His life as an exotic pet, odious in many ways, had at least settled into a routine. The period he had spent on the bus had imposed a rhythm on his life, as nothing much changed from one day to the next, or for that matter, from one year to the next. A life without freedom, but a life free of too much excitement. Just the way Arthur liked it. 

     Now a horrible, but familiar, sinking feeling crept over him. He knew in his heart, which was currently located somewhere down by his feet, that he was never going to live a quiet settled life ever again. When he had bought the saucer he believed, or at least hoped, that he could move about the Galaxy on his own terms. As usual, he would have to allow the vagaries of this crazy Galaxy to conduct his life for him. Still, that was normality for Arthur Dent, the last remaining Earthman and sane individual, in an insane Universe.

****


	9. Domestic

**     Chapter Nine – Domestic**

     They settled down for their evening's entertainment. A perfectly ordinary couple. Side by side. A Zap-U-Like meal apiece. Occasionally one or the other would look down to make sure their fork connected properly with the food. A little domestic scene repeated countless times throughout the Galaxy. 

     "I'm sure I've seen her somewhere before," he said, jabbing at the screen with his knife. She's quite a stunner, he thought, but kept it to himself. 

     "Apparently, 'When Worlds Collide,'" she said, "though I haven't seen it. I'd never even heard of Fanny Starr before she showed up on this programme."

     "No, I haven't seen it either, but she definitely looks familiar. The name's familiar too."

     "You're imagining it. You probably fancy her, that's all. Maybe you've been dreaming about her," she laughed.

     "Do me a favour, she's not even my type," he lied. "This is going to nag at me now until I remember. Where the hell was it? It wasn't that drama with that bloke, What's-His-Name, from that soap that was on a couple of years ago, that married that woman, was it?"

     "Well that's narrowed it down a bit," she said. "Anyway, I'm trying to watch." She picked up the remote and turned the sound up a notch.

     They saw Fanny approach Zaphod Beeblebrox and introduce herself. Her body language suggested extreme flirtatiousness of the no-two-ways-about-it variety. Zaphod's body language suggested acute embarrassment of the very self-conscious variety. He was clearly still suffering from the previous evening's exposure. The invisicams zoomed in to capture every expression, and the directional mikes strained to hear every word. 

     "Oh, hi," they heard Fanny say, as she brushed her  complicated girly hair from her face.

     Zaphod affected a nonchalant stance and casually waved an arm by way of a greeting. A little too casually, and with nowhere near enough nonchalance to be convincing.

     "Wasn't it scary last night?" she said. "I thought you were very brave to stay on the ground. I shot straight up the nearest tree. You and Splat make a great team. The way you drew them away from the pack to give the others a chance. That was just brilliant," they heard her say, as she put her hand to her chest, whilst making a pretty little 'O' with her pretty little mouth.

    Now she had his full attention. Zaphod's two heads scanned her closely. He looked unsure of himself, as if he suspected a trap. But she was very pretty. She was very pretty indeed.

     Spiro's educated voiceover cut in. "What Zaphod Beeblebrox doesn't realise is that Fanny is no ordinary contestant. She is, in fact, this season's Spy in the Camp," he said in conspiratorial tones. 

     "Well," said Zaphod, "Splat was the real hero."

     "You can say that again!" said Spiro.

     "I mean, anyone could have done what I did."

     "He's not wrong, you know," said Spiro, with a chuckle. "We're not used to this much honesty from an ex-President, and this ex-President in particular."

     "Yeah, but if you hadn't kept them in the camp Splat wouldn't have got his chance,"  Fanny giggled, coquettishly. "You are funny. You should be proud of the part you played." When the invisicams were ready she gave Zaphod her best alluring smile, full of admiration, and emphasised by two drop-dead-gorgeous fuck-me-eyes. She reached a slender hand to Zaphod's face and stroked his bristled cheek. The other head looked put out.

     Again we hear the voice of Spiro: "And now, dear viewer, it time to let you all into a little secret. Fanny isn't as innocent as she seems. She isn't the inexperienced teenager that she appears to be, but the most sought after porn star in the Galaxy, and, I think you'll agree, a very good actress as well."

     A thick silence permeated the room. It obliterated the noise of the traffic in the street outside. It blotted out the sounds from the vidicube. It demanded attention, but was of such a quality that he dare not notice it. Neither party said a word. He did not speak because he was hoping to wake up. He wasn't asleep, but he hoped he was. He would awake from the dream – nightmare, rather – and he would get ready for work with a glad heart for once, knowing that it had hadn't really happened and that he was off the hook. Except that it wasn't a dream. The silence waved its arms in front of his face. It danced around him and ruffled his hair. It turned up the thermostat until he felt the heat prickling his skin. It got its dangly bits out and waved them in his face. He wanted to tell it to go away, but he was afraid that it wouldn't take any notice. The silence mocked him and it was only just warming up.

     Inspiration leapt to his rescue. "Got it!" he shouted in a falsetto voice he never knew he had. "That coach trip to the Moon with the lads from work. Of course! There was a film on, though I wasn't really watching. Not properly. That's why I couldn't remember. I knew I'd get there in the end. It must've been that film, 'When Worlds Collide.' Told you I'd seen her before. Yeah, that's what it was called. I remember now."

     She didn't say anything because she didn't need to. He was obviously lying. Anything she said would not add to his discomfort by one iota. She was only mildly annoyed by what she had heard, but he didn't know that and she wouldn't let on. Not yet, anyhow. He could watch as many dirty films as he wanted, just so long as he was too scared to admit it. The interrogation he was expecting could wait. There were shopping expeditions to organise. Trips to expensive restaurants that he thought were a complete waste of money. It was all a question of timing. He knew that she knew that he knew that she knew that he knew that she knew. This was all adding up to about two weeks worth of extra special attention, she calculated. Two weeks and then she'd cut him a bit of slack.

     "And, of course," Spiro's voiceover continued, "there is no such film as 'When Worlds Collide.' Fanny Starr has only ever appeared in skinflicks, and not just any old skinflicks either. Fanny Starr has only ever appeared in the sort of film that you wouldn't want to tell your drinking buddies about down the local dive, yet alone your nearest and dearest. If I were you, I'd keep watching. I think we can expect some serious mattress mayhem in the days ahead, even if most of it ends up on the cutting room floor."

     Make that four weeks.

     The silence streaked around the room screaming, "look at me, look at me," before somersaulting over the vidicube.

     He was caught in a trap of his own devising. Hoist by his own petard. Gripped, well and truly, by the short and curlies. 

     He just hoped that his wallet was up to it.


End file.
